


never say die

by albion



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Longing, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albion/pseuds/albion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire isn't sure what he's supposed to do. All he knows is that he remembers, and he has to find them again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never say die

“I’m telling you, Philippe, _Mozart L’Opera Rock_ is definitely worth seeing!” Grantaire side stepped a large puddle in the middle of the street, swaying dangerously with the alcohol running through his veins.

 

Philippe laughed, “I’d rather spend the night at Henri’s and play video games, but you’re welcome to go see it yourself.”

 

“By myself and look like a loser? No thank you- whoa sorry dude, didn’t see you…” the words on Grantaire’s lips died as he took in the person, no, god, no it had to be a person, standing before him. The man was dressed in black leather and a red jacket and there was no way that colour of blond should have been allowed on a man, it had to be a _sin_ , surely.

 

“My apologies,” said the young man, and moved to get out of Grantaire’s way. He looked lost.

 

“Hey,” said Grantaire, acutely aware of Philippe grinning like a lunatic beside him, “do you… need directions or something? You look lost.”

 

“No thank you,” said the man brusquely, “I’m fine.”

 

He pushed past the duo and disappeared into the crowd.

 

“Geez…” said Grantaire, “what was that all about?”

 

Philippe shrugged, “no idea, but you totally had the hots for him.”

 

“What??”

 

“Oh come on, don’t deny it. You’re practically suppressing a boner right now.”

 

“Ergh go away.”

 

It was pure coincidence a week later, when Grantaire decided that fuck it, going to Toulouse’s concert that evening wasn’t a waste of time after all, that he saw him again. The Apollo, he had taken to calling him in his mind. It was ten minutes before Toulouse was due to go on stage, and Grantaire settled himself down at a table near the back. Suddenly he saw him. He was there, standing on the stage, hosting what seemed to be the climax of a political speech. His hair, curly and slightly damp with sweat, blazed in the stage lights like a flaming torch. His face was contorted in expressions of anger and passion, his lips open and moist as he called for revolution, for social change, for justice.

 

Grantaire had never seen anything so beautiful. He wanted to paint the stranger, he wanted to capure him on canvas in reds and golds and blues, he wanted to hold him down and fuck him, to see that wet mouth open in a cry of ecstasy, to feel him squirm under Grantaire’s grasp.

 

He got up and left the café abruptly, missing the concert and going home to get completely and utterly drunk.

 

That night he dreamt. He dreamt of Paris, vivid in his mind, although this Paris was not Paris as Grantaire knew it. He dreamt of guns, and horses, and cannons. He dreamt of a group of friends, their voices familiar but fuzzy, banging on windows and crying out for aid that never came. He dreamt of a barricade, and drinking in the early hours of the morning.

 

He dreamt of revolution.

 

It was 3am, and Grantaire woke up with a start.

 

He remembered.

 

He remembered Musain, and 1832, and June. He remembered Combeferre, and Courfeyrac, and Prouvaire. He remembered Joly, and Bossuet, and Bahorel and Feuilly. He remembered Enjolras. Golden, cruel, beautiful Enjolras.

 

Grantaire leapt out of bed and practically ran back to the café.

 

He was gone, of course. It was a fool’s idea, to think that he would still be there. The café was deserted, except for a lone homeless man sitting in a nearby doorway.

 

“Hey, boy!” he called, “got any change?”

 

Grantaire fished around in his pockets, and dropped a few coins into the man’s tin.

 

“Thanks mate. Hey… you look like you’re looking for something.”

 

“No it’s… it’s nothing,” Grantaire replied, and stumbled home. He closed his eyes again, and prayed to dream of Paris.

 

He dreamt of nothing but the dark.


End file.
